Another Star
by girlintheyankeeshat
Summary: A one-shot set in late Season 3. After months of hurt, misunderstanding and change, can a sad occasion be the catalyst for Cal and Gillian to confront their feelings? 'When the fleeting, slight dance of her fingertips on his skin began again in earnest, he wondered if that touch had now brought them into a very different future...'


Summary: A one-shot set in late Season 3. After months of hurt, misunderstanding and change, can a sad occasion be the catalyst for Cal and Gillian to confront their feelings? 'When the fleeting, slight dance of her fingertips on his skin began again in earnest, he wondered if that touch had now brought them into a very different future: onto the same, barely written, jaggedly typeset page bound with the healing glue of love.'

Rating: T

A/N: Inspired by the wonderful 'Another Star' by Stevie Wonder (the opening lyrics there are his, not mine) and by a rewatch of Season 3 that really got me thinking about the nature of so many unfinished moments and unspoken words.

Disclaimer: _Lie to Me_ and the lyrics are not mine. Oh, and other chocolate spreads are available! ;)

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><p><em>For youthere might be another star/but through my eyes/the light of you/is all I see_

_Monday_

A looped belt of stars was tightly clustered above the twinkling jewels of the city's lights, those tiny points were a rare sight, clear, hard and insistent against the artificial flood of man-made luminescence. The air carried a sharp edge of ice, a razor-sharp sting of cutting cold, a fleeting contrast to the colour and beauty offered up by the view from the balcony. The night was a contradiction, but the day had been anything but – a heavy slog of hard emotion. They'd been to a funeral. An elderly benefactor with a firm belief in the deep-woven morality of the truth – a warm, loving, wealthy Ivy League gent – had slipped away peacefully in his sleep. In spite of this seeming display of the natural order of things, the weight of the occasion was no less: there were bursts of tears, ripples of reminiscent laughter, heartfelt tributes.

During one of the eulogies, the man's son had declared that he believed his father was now just another star in the sky. Cal usually thought that symbolic stuff was a sentimental load of old bollocks, but after seeing the way it made Gillian smile, and confronted with the very clear, pin-sharp blanket of little lights in the sky, his mind wandered. If she was a star then she was the strong, solitary light in his eyes – illuminative, warm, glowing, endless, a force all of her own in a dark, dark world. Lately, with his unspoken confession of love still lingering as deep, hidden and dangerous as an internal bleed, he'd been preoccupied with the thought that she might fall for someone else. That there was a brighter, bolder star burning in her eyes and it wasn't him. It was a tearing, gutting, shredding idea, one that pulled needles through his veins that were hard-edged with heartbreak and sorrow and tipped with the slow, poisonous guilt that he knew he would feel because he wouldn't even be able to be happy for her.

Although the warmth from her fingertips, which had been splayed across his side for some time where she had her arm loosely around his waist, was bleeding steadily into his skin, it did little to dissipate the black fog of that thought. They'd been standing there with silence as a strong bond for a long few moments, seemingly oblivious to the cold and the dark. Although nothing in his demeanour gave away his current painful train of thought, she felt him move a mere centimetre closer, thumb grazing her shoulder through the black cotton of her dress, their sides pressing together in an awkward and abrupt clash of bones. Pulling the frigid air through her lungs, she found a few words.

"Did you know that some of the stars are actually dead? They're just giant diamonds up there now."

Even with the gentle ripple of wonder and the crystal-clear certainty in her voice, he couldn't help but question that assertion.

"You been at the Scotch again, darlin'?"

"Why?" She asked gently, fingers spreading into a whisper-soft web cast from the edge of his hipbone across to the centre of his abdomen, before she added in a low, brazen whisper, "were you hoping for a repeat performance?"

The answer was all in his eyes, hard black with the affirmative affliction of desire enrobed with the soft colour of his irises that spoke only of care and love. With the bare minimum of movement she grasped, tugged and turned until she was not just hugging him, but merging against him in a fluid, effortless motion, fitting in like a jigsaw. All she could hear was the increased rhythm of his heart, a strong melody in perfect stereo. Even with the distant rush of the traffic, the droning hum of the air-conditioning unit, the raucous noise from the party on the third floor, the simple song of his racing blood was the sole pulse of sound that pierced her consciousness.

She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the warmth and comfort that had been there all day, now steadily amplified by their close proximity, and her mind travelled back to the last time they had been out there like this, with the shocking burn of alcohol in her throat and the mingling scents of coal and sweat playing havoc with her senses. They'd never spoken of it since, and part of her felt as if this had been a pattern with them in the past few months. Unfinished kisses, incomplete conversations, fractured teamwork, so many secrets. Maybe he just had someone else to share those things with, she thought sadly, feeling her fingertips begging to disagree as they zig-zagged up his vertebrae and then traced lazy patterns around the back of his neck.

Taking another cold, cleansing breath, which allowed a heated mist to caress his earlobe, she ghosted the pad of her thumb along his jaw, touch featherlight and yet loaded with meaning.

In the depths of his mind, those tiny coils of her thumbprint against his face wound back to that other kiss, that passionate half-truth in the director's office. As blissful as the crushing heat of her lips had been, the soft stroke of her fingertips on his cheek had been his real undoing. Because there was an underlying tenderness, a deliberate, loving care in her touch that was endlessly true. For the first time, he'd considered the possibility that she might just have returned the deep feelings he had for her, and that single, fleeting gesture broke open a dangerous, destructive dam that led him to start pushing her away. The cycle of hurting her to protect her began.

The penetrating glitter of her gaze pulled him out of the lead-heavy despondency, but the affirmative press of her kiss that followed shattered it into an insignificant confetti. It was soft and questioning, yet fire-ringed with the steady heat of barely concealed passion. When the fleeting, slight dance of her fingertips on his skin began again in earnest, he wondered if that touch had now brought them into a very different future: onto the same, barely written, jaggedly typeset page bound with the healing glue of love.

She finally pulled away, right hand still fitted against his jaw, a hint of a smile playing across her face as she felt his grip on her waist tighten and saw the questions in his expression.

"Life's too short, right?" she said quietly, holding in the shrug that she wanted to give into because it was all so far from being just a casual moment. She was relaxed and happy, but aware of the seriousness of what had just transpired.

"Gill, Howard was eighty-seven." He wondered why he was being so rational when he actually didn't really give a toss why she'd chosen to get all affectionate again, and this time most certainly without the distorting fog of alcohol bringing its complications.

"So…" her tone was deep and rich as she trailed invisible patterns across the white cotton of one of his sleeves, mind working overtime,"…you're saying that forty years of _this_ is long enough?"

"Alright, I get your point," he agreed, amused by her statement and slightly hypnotised by the cadence of her touch: it was so certain, steady and sensual.

"I thought you might be seein' that Neil. Or thinkin' about it." Neil had been the principle reason for his preoccupation over the last few weeks. A young and seemingly carefree financial whiz who had been helping on a long-running case, she had clearly been impressed with more than just his work. In fact, it seemed as if he had his own little fan club, with most of the women in the office keen to nudge each other and swoon at any opportunity.

"He's very sweet, but no. Devoted to his Labradors, the _Wall Street Journal_ and last and most definitely least, UNC."  
>"It would never work."<p>

"His support of a rival team enough to put you off, then?" Once again, he wondered why his mind was full of questions when he really didn't care as to why she wasn't interested.

"Would you date a Millwall fan, Cal?"

"No, not even if she had tits like dinner plates."

"Oh, that's very charming of you." She laughed, a gentle ripple of joyous sound pulsing between them, a short moment of pleasure before she cast her gaze towards the stars again. The dual burn from those little lights and the emotion rising in her throat spread out and rushed up in a tight ball of uncertainty as she swallowed hard and breathed out the next question in a whisper.

"What about you and Wallowski?"

"There's nothin' in it.' Even with the fervent denial out there, he could still feel the way even talking about that woman changed her emotions – she'd gone from fluid, oil-like warmth in his arms to being tense and distant.

"So the pictures were a lie?" Oddly, the one thing that had stuck with her the most from those photos was the bright magenta of the shawl - she had one just like it.

Breathing in, he trailed his fingertips from her waist to her jaw, framing her face and turning her eyes from the skyline to his gaze.

"I was usin' her and she was usin' me. Bit convenient that she was able to find the one person that could get IA off her back so soon after breakin' into my house." "Probably knew they were after her."

"And Mace in the face is hardly an aphrodisiac, yeah?"

Trying to hide her amusement was a fruitless task, with more than a hint of a smile arching out from the corner of her mouth.

"You could look a little less pleased at rememberin' that." However, he knew that his own expression was definitely a mirror at that point as he showed his delight at the glimmer of wickedness radiating from her face.

"I could, but I won't." When she bit her lip to stifle another laugh, his hands wandered south again, angling her body back in close to his again and feeling renewed warmth spread between them.

"We haven't talked as much. Someone had to be sharing your secrets." Even if they had danced around their desire for many years, she couldn't remember a time when their friendship had been so strained, so elastic – close and then snapped away in a painful, closed-off pinch.

"My older, wiser and much nosier daughter," he explained softly, feeling a slow-burning sadness linger. Did she really think that he would trust someone else as intimately as he did the two women who were the very fabric of his life?

"I would never expect..."

"I know. I'm bloody lucky to have both of you." Reassurance came both from the certainty in his words and the tender brush of his thumb against her cheek.

"Why did we let so many things lie?" Somehow the duality of the word sat heavy in her mind. After all, both meanings applied – the unfinished nature of their interactions and the untruths they'd told.

"I didn't want to hurt you and you didn't want to get hurt." "Probably failed miserably on the first bit, though."  
>"Which made the second bit difficult as well."<p>

"I'll survive." It wasn't a statement of defeat or a intonation of sadness, just a fact. She'd learned time and time again to keep going through the pain, to re-wire and rearrange the circuits of hurt until there was an energetic, electric spark.

"I'd rather you lived than just survived," he replied sincerely, making a silent vow to himself – he couldn't make a promise aloud without the fear of breaking it – that there would be more living than surviving from now on, and found his words accordingly.

"Come and stay with us this weekend." Never leaving her eyes, he traced minuscule circles at the base of her spine – light, exquisite and new. She caught the meaning as he intended, understanding that their future was about more than being best friends and lovers, but also being something they'd been for longer than they'd cared to admit in words – family.

"I will," she said with cast-iron certainty, letting her hands wander up over his shoulders, "but only if you stay with me on Thursday night."

"It's not just about – "

"I know, I know. I heard what you just said, Cal." Leaning closer and pressing all her curves against him for the second time that night, she swallowed hard and then whispered in his ear in a honey-soft tone, "but patience really isn't your strong point, and I don't want to wait."

Eyes closed and every cell concentrated on the burgeoning desire and the insistent press of both her body and her words, his voice was dangerously low as he moved his lips to the shell of her ear.

"I love it when we're on the same page."

"Mmm, I'll bet," she said, the smile evident in her words. "So, as nice and warm as it is here," you'll agree that we should probably go inside now before it gets really cold?"

"Hard to disagree with anythin' you might suggest right now," he offered, reluctantly slipping out of her embrace, but keeping an arm wrapped securely around her waist as they moved to go inside.

"I'll remember that."

"Gill.. just so you know, the only people with tits like dinner plates at the football were blokes."

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><p><em>Friday<em>

Shrugging off the bone-deep weariness and unexpected languor of an eventful week, she turned the key in the lock with renewed purpose, shuffling the bulk of her bag over the threshold with her foot before meeting the concerned-yet-welcoming eyes of Emily.

"Hi, Gillian. Is everything OK?" Quick off the mark as ever, she took in the scene before her and surmised that she needed shelter in the midst of a storm. She'd seen the older woman so little lately, surely it had to be some kind of emergency that had brought her there?

"I'm fine, Emily. Everything's fine." Emily definitely didn't misread the subtle glow fanning across the older woman's cheeks or the optimistic certainty in her tone.

"You're staying here this weekend? With Dad?" Excitement and a touch of disbelief rose in her voice.

A slight nod and a crafty smile were a delicate confirmation that was soon a strange contrast to the lung-bursting hug that Emily enveloped Gillian in. A sharp clink then disrupted the air and Emily's wide smile turned into a frown as she realised that something fragile in the bag had been shuffled about by their embrace.

"What's that?"

"Nutella." Gillian replied plainly, only serving to pique Emily's curiosity and confusion even further.

"You have Nutella... in your overnight bag?" The pause made both of them amused and slightly awkward, with the second emotion being something that was definitely new between the two of them.

"It's for breakfast." Gillian explained, chuckling and blushing at the misunderstanding.

"Let me take your bag, and I'll be upstairs. With the brain bleach." Emily joked, bending down to take the handles of the bag and letting out a slight wince as she was surprised by the weight of the holdall.

"God, what did you bring? Suspects for interrogation?" After gingerly moving about enough to lug the bag to the foot of the stairs, she addressed her father's absence.

"Dad's in the garden. I have no idea why, because it's freezing outside. Promise me you'll bring him in before he turns into Grumpy the Snowman?"

"The snowman bit I can promise you, Em, the grumpy bit..."

"It's like I told you, Gill. My Dad's always happy when he's with you."

A silence that was thick with meaning, happiness and understanding settled between them as the women smiled at each other knowingly. Any of the tiny shreds of awkwardness that may have remained were broken and buried when the two women embraced again, this time without any interruption and still with the peaceful halo of a precious silence pulled tightly around them.

"I'm really glad you're here," Emily admitted softly, knowing that she had expected this day to come as much as she'd feared it might not arrive.

"Me too, sweetheart," Gillian agreed, thinking that the last week had been something of an emotional whirlwind and that the weekend may well bring some calm.

"I'd better go and defrost your Dad."

Just as it had been earlier in the week, the air was crisp with cold and heavy with the threat of frost. The wooden panels creaked under her heels and her breath misted in a warm fog as she approached him, still slightly flushed from earlier and grinning in amusement at him slouching across the edge of the deck.

Even with only a small amount of light spilling in from inside, he couldn't miss the faint blush sweeping across her features. The flicker of colour sent a flood of flashbacks blooming behind his eyes as last night replayed in vivid, instant frames. He remembered the deeper pink blossoming on her skin like the way it would tip the white petal of a rose, sweat running like raindrops, and gasps and sighs that were little litanies of desire. He still wasn't quite sure how he'd made it through the day with her close proximity a constant reminder of their new-found intimacy.

"What's got you all worked up, then?" Desire hung low and deep in his voice as he watched her swallow and bite her lip before she shrugged and gave him an enigmatic smile.

"Just a misunderstanding about chocolate spread," she explained, carefully keeping a little of the mystery involved while moving closer to him all the while.

"Should have known that sugar would be part of it," he admitted, curling his fingers around his beer bottle before shuffling it to one side, nodding slightly to the space he had made.

Moments later the solid warmth of her body had displaced some of the clinging cold from his skin, arms draped over her shoulders and lips pressed to her hair.

"Why are you out here? It's really cold."

With fingers looped gently around her wrist he pointed out another glowing cluster of stars in the sky, all the time feeling the languid pace of her pulse as a clear and resonant comfort.

"Just thinkin' about Howard, and how he probably, y'know, did us another favour." After all the generosity and the support, the sadness of the old man's passing had been a sad and unexpected glue, something that had forced them both to confront the changes in their relationship over the previous months.

"We probably owe it to him not to perish from exposure in your back garden." Not even the shared heat of their closeness could prevent a shiver chasing up through her bones.

"Doesn't look like you're exposin' anythin' to me." A subtle nip at her neck was swiftly followed by a less-than-understated squeeze of her hips, branding the fever of his touch deep into her mind.

"Maybe we can stay for a little while longer," she breathed, smiling, laughing and relishing the warmth of the moment.

Even if the stars were to grace every other frigid Washington night, if they always burned as clear and as strongly as the souls that they may have represented, they were the strongest, solitary light in each other's eyes.


End file.
